


Same Touch

by seamscribe



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Face-Sitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 12:00:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4834547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seamscribe/pseuds/seamscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what she does: she takes the most functional parts of him and puts him to work. The not-so-functional parts, she quiets and pushes aside with a sure hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Same Touch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's a tricky dance, but they make it look easy, as easy as the way they fight together, fluid and lithe. Time has taught Furiosa that as mysterious as Max is, he's actually incredibly easy to read—once you got him to the right state. It came in handy as there was no state thus far that made him good with words.

 

It wasn't always so. The first time had been tense, almost brittle, almost frightening. No, it _was_ frightening and they were both shaking afterward, driven apart with as much force as they had come together, by the curl of her fingers around his wrist, the human ones. Strong enough, but she didn't have to grip. He stayed wherever she put him. _That_ time. Probably too shocked by the feeling of clean, naked skin. She doesn't know the last time she touched a man, but whenever it was, it hadn't been like _this_.

 

He ran, afterward, as soon as he was able. She wonders what he would have done if she'd told him, _No_. _Stay_. But she didn't say anything. She wasn't sure she wanted him to stay. She was uneasy, remembering the feeling of holding him down, the feeling that rushed through her when she saw the look on his face, like awe, even then.

 

She couldn't look him in the eye the next day. They were discordant for the first time, bouncing off each other like magnets, each keeping to their own side of the Citadel. She expected, _so_ much and with _so_ much cold resignation, to discover him gone by the end of the day. But he came to her that night, the heat of the day not even faded from his jacket yet. He laid himself out for her without prompting, although he wasn't so easy that time around.

 

It had taken well over one hundred days before they saw his face again, hidden under a considerable beard. If he had run then, he might have never come back. That was the thought that drove her. In some three minutes out in the dust, he had become crucial. Then he had saved her life and she didn't know what label she could put on that except _irreversible_.

 

So, the second night, she watched, and discovered a wealth of expression from Max that was as wordless as ever. If his mouth was the only thing he could move, he would put it to good use.

 

It had taken another hundred or so days before they got comfortable. During the day, they were as in sync as ever. Alone, at night, it was fraught. They both ended up bruised and bloody more than once, when the desire to be held down suddenly turned into a need to escape. But she discovered that she could both hurt and heal. Often in the same touch.

 

The turning point had been a few days after the Dag had given birth. He had only arrived a few hours after the big event, grumbling that he thought he'd be there sooner. The Dag had dumped the baby in his arms and declared, “I'm calling her Beam.”

 

Max met her eyes and then looked down at Beam, nodding for a long moment. No one seemed to notice the set of his shoulders or the frantic tap of his foot against the floor. Furiosa had been there to take Beam when he had suddenly jumped up, looking around in panic. She shared a frown with the Dag after Max hurried out of the room, but Capable took the baby before she could say anything. “Go on,” she had said softly.

 

He knew the way to her room. He was already there on the bed, breathing hard. She didn't bother lighting a candle, just went over in the dark and made herself a heavy weight on his chest, pressing him into the bed.

 

“Are you with me?” she had asked, leaning over him.

 

His pale eyes meeting hers in the faint moonlight. He had licked his lips and said, “Right here.”

 

And he hadn't run. He had stayed, if only for a few days, and held the baby again before he went, and said goodbye. Next to his car, his gaze had traced over her face, hovered on her lips. He met her stare for a moment and then looked at the ground. “Be back,” he said gruffly.

 

 

She had run a hand through his hair, her fingers curling at the back at his neck, and said, “I know.”

 

And it had been sixty days before she had seen him again, the fastest he had ever returned. And there he had been that night, in her bed, ready for her.

 

Now, he watches her start to undress from his place on the bed. “You're smiling. What are you thinking about?” he asks. He's spent all day with Beam hanging off his back. Sometimes those days are hard and he's barely there, fighting the urge to run with every quick breath. But sometimes those days wake him up and she sees him smile more in a day than in a month. Smiles were scarce before, but now everyone seems to smile all the time. It's a wonder that she's lived seven thousand days barren and arid inside, and now she may live to see another seven thousand in this new world where she feels so _much_.

 

It may be crazy to anchor all that in Max, but she knows now that it could not have been anyone else, probably knew it then, too. It may be crazy that he is the only person she could trust enough to touch when he's possibly half-crazy himself. It may be crazy, but as the Dag solemnly told her, “The future belongs to the mad.”

 

“Dinner,” she replies, unbuckling her prosthesis and tossing it to him. He sets it on the night stand with great care.

 

“Dinner?”

 

“Yeah. Never had spinach.” He gives her a dubious look. “Oh, don't pout,” she laughs quietly. She tosses her clothes on the chair in the corner, on top of his jacket. “The spinach wasn't _that_ good.” She climbs on top of him and leans down, kissing him soundly.

 

“Gets stuck in your teeth,” he says after a minute or two. She makes a questioning noise around his ear. “Spinach,” he breaths. “Gets stuck in your teeth.”

 

Furiosa rolls her eyes and puts a finger to his lips. “Don't speak, Fool.”

 

She kisses him again. This is one thing she hadn't been expecting to like. But he wanted to and he obviously had a lot of experience. “He's got very nice lips,” Cheedo said once, a little too dreamy for Furiosa's taste. Still, it's not surprising that the youngest Sister has a crush on him. To Cheedo, to all of them, he's still the silent Wasteland warrior, the man who saved her life, the one who held her as she didn't quite die. Then he was the one who brought them plants and seeds and, most valuable of all, information. Then he was the one who could make Furiosa laugh.

 

They haven't seen deep enough, not to his bones. She thinks she's getting close.

 

She blows out the candle and pulls away the thin sheet that still covers his body. She moves swiftly. This had been one of their problems early-on. The first time she had thrown her weight on his chest, he had thrown her halfway across the room. Already frustrated, Furiosa had tackled him to the floor with a cry of rage. They had both ended up with bruises and slightly teary eyes--not from the pain of the fight, of course. She can't imagine how long it's been since either of them cried from a blow or a gunshot or a blade or anything like that, but thirty seconds snarling into each other's faces somehow did them in.

 

Now, she asks, “Are you with me?”

 

With clear eyes, he says, “Right here.”

 

She shifts forward but he knows not to get too excited, she has teased and tricked him too many times, coming closer just to move away, feeding him fingers instead of kisses, tracing his lips with her fingers until they ached. She kisses him again, squeezing her legs around his hips where the skin is soft and hot. He makes a noise and she feels his hands at her waist, curving around places that have softened from all the regular food. That is where his hands will stay unless she moves them, and the hand prints will burn all night.

 

Besides that small touch, he is content to lay underneath her, accepting what she gives or takes, so _trusting._ It should scare the shit out of her--enough people depend on her, although the girls claim quite vehemently that everything is under control, as if such a thing were even possible.

 

But she feels _adept_ with Max, in a way she hasn't felt in a long time. She may not be able to give comfort with hugs and sweet words, but she knows how to ease him. There is something she can control, although it's not him, it's herself. She can be as angry as she wants and he will still be there, and that realization steals her anger. And without the anger, the sadness is unavoidable. But she can break down, she can be weak and selfish and cynical, and he will still be there. How he can trust her after these moments, she has no idea.

 

But it's like melting steel: the pain, that crush of weight in her chest when she thinks about every body left on Fury Road, the rage that she scratches into his chest and breathes out when she feels his rough, warm hands on her ribs, reminding her, always, that she's alive and here, not a dead thing. She has come out of it all, stronger and yet not harder.

 

Furiosa settles back until Max stills and his breath turns shallow and steady, fighting her weight. She scratches her hand over his head and lingers on the back of his neck for a moment, long enough that he shivers and huffs out a breath. She lays a hand over his heart. It's probably her imagination but she always seems to feel an answering hum inside when she feels the blood pounding under her fingers. He is still, but she sees the light of his eyes in the dark, just barely open and watching her. He licks his lips.

 

She surges forward too fast for him to catch his breath so when her legs settle around his head, he's unprepared, making a noise when his dry mouth presses against her where she has been wet since she opened the door. She can _feel_ his mouth water against her. She leans back to give him a little room. He likes to tease and she indulges him because it seems to delight him so much, and because he's _good_. She's never really seen the reason to drag things out, but she's never had the luxury. Then he had slowly worked her over until she was ready to strangle him, little licks and sucks and that brought on endless shudders and finally made her body freeze and melt.

 

She leans forward until he gasps and his mouth opens, the long, rough flat of his tongue dragging against her. He moans and she sinks into the vibrations until she hears his strangled noise. Then she stays there for a long moment until he squirms and bucks underneath her.

 

When she sits back, he drags in a great breath, licking his swollen lips. She doesn't give him long before she slides forward, leaning back this time so she can see him. Max is already waiting with his mouth open, already moaning, a steady rumble like the thrum of an engine. It never fails to make her shiver, the inside of her thighs rubbing his rough jaw. She can't stop moving once she starts, grinding against him and reaching down to pull him even closer until his breath comes in choked little stops and starts and he blinks up at her before his eyes start to roll back and

 

That is when she moves back and feels a bolt of heat shoot through her at the keening noise he makes. He pants for a few moments and then looks up at her with a slight smile and tilts his face up.

 

They can go on like this for an amazingly long time. She can watch his eyes shudder over and over until it seems like they should both go insane, but his gaze always finds hers again. This is what she does: she takes the most functional parts of him and puts him to work. The not-so-functional parts, she quiets and pushes aside with a sure hand. She narrows his world from the vast and endless Wastelands to the warm, close place between her thighs, to simple imperatives: drive, don't breathe, don't speak. Open your mouth. Breathe. Come.

 

She's impatient tonight, so it's not long before she has to move back and sink down on him, covering one hand on her hip with her own, biting a spot on her lip that is perpetually tender. That is his cue to move if he wants and tonight he surges up to kiss her, looping one arm around her waist. The other traces the spot where he stabbed her. This is always the first place he touches and he never fails to show a fraction of relief when he sees that she is, impossibly, still alive.

 

Then he moves up to her nipples and bites one and then the other with steadily increasing force until her body bows away and curls back towards him. Her head falls back—unthinkable a thousand days ago—and he leans in to bite her neck with one hand squeezing around the place where her arms ends. He lays his head on her chest for a moment and takes a breath, murmurs her name with his eyes closed. She whispers his in turn, hushed in the darkness.

 

His hand drops between them to touch her and he comes when she tells him to with a low, hitching cry with his mouth against her collarbone, right before she does. She makes a noise like an engine hissing and falls against him, pushing him back onto the bed.

 

They stay entwined for a long moment before they pull apart. Max curls around her, already falling asleep. They will both roll away and sleep back to back after awhile. Old habits did die hard, after all.

 

“Gonna make a guitar,” he says drowsily. “Dag can sing. Beam, too.”

 

“How long do those take?”

 

“Don't know. However long it takes.” This is his dumb way of letting her know he's sticking around, making up random jobs.

 

“Yeah, whatever.”

 

“Can you sing?” he asks curiously.

 

“Haven't done in a long time.”

 

“Seven thousand days?” he murmurs.

 

“And a few hundred more, probably.”

 

“They'll make you sing, you know.”

 

“Maybe you shouldn't make the damn guitar then.”

 

“It's for the Dag,” he insists.

 

She rolls her eyes. “Sleep, Fool.” He hums an assent against her skin. “Dream well,” she whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> I thought, 'NO facesitting fics?...' I owe a great deal to underwater_owl and her story 'flagging black', and also to Tom Hardy, Adonis.
> 
> Please comment if you liked :)


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